Lunch Break Coincidences
by Elfenwesen
Summary: Mike Stamford would never have guessed that he'd play a key role in two peoples' lives. John & Sherlock's first encounter from Mike's POV, pre-slash!
1. In the Park

**Title:** Lunch Break Coincidences

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Summary:** Mike Stamford would never have guessed that he'd play a key role in two peoples' lives. John & Sherlock's first encounter from Mike's POV, pre-slash!

**Beta by:** Nixie & punchycat

**Editing by: **TeaLogic

* * *

><p>It is a perfectly pleasant day in London, no rain, no snow, and no nasty Siberian wind. Since that's rather unusual for late January I decide to go to the park during my lunch break to get a bit of sun on my face while reading my paper. It seems to be my lucky day because I find an empty bench without having to walk around the park for too long.<p>

I hadn't been sitting there for five minutes when a man hobbles past me. He looks annoyed and tense, his hair is shorter and he is using a cane to walk but I recognize him nevertheless. Hastily, I grab my suitcase in one hand, stand up and call: "John?" But he doesn't stop, so I try again: "John Watson!"

This time he turns around but his look is not one of immediate recognition, so I help him out: "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together."

He takes his cane into his left hand and shakes mine with his right. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello."

Obviously my name rang a bell, but what he's seeing doesn't fit the picture of me that he remembers.

"Yes, I know, I got fat", I offer. He's quick to deny it, but his tone betrays him. Clearly he agrees with me. I decide to change the subject.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." His reply is dry and simple, which takes me by surprise. War seems to have changed him quite a bit, which – of course – is only understandable. Who would return untouched?

I wonder whether he is alright, sure doesn't look like he is. "What would you say to a cup of coffee? I could really use one and the Criterion Bar is right over there."

"It's quite alright, Mike. I haven't been back that long and still need to organize some stuff, so I'd better get going." Somehow he just doesn't pay any attention to his tone; it's betraying his words. He has nowhere better to be, but he'd just rather not have an awkward conversation. However I've become more persistent since the last time that John Watson saw me.

"You always loved their coffee, said it was the only drinkable one in the whole of London. Just a quick cup, John, for old times' sake! Come on. My treat."

He finally gives in. A few minutes later we sit on a park bench, John taking a huge gulp out of his takeaway cup. I'm starting to think that being persistent might not always be a good thing. He'd clearly rather be anywhere else than sitting here with me.

"Are you still at Barts then?" He tears me out of my thoughts.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them", I reply. It's true; my students remind me of my old mates from uni, especially the ones that just radiate hope. They remind me of the risks that so many of my friends took and succeeded, whereas I am still where I was fifteen years ago. John looks at me with sympathy in his eyes. Wonderful, that's just what I need. I change the topic. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension", he explains. Seems to me like he's trying to scotch any offers I might have for a night out before they even cross my mind. He pouts and I can't help but remember those lips exploring my bare skin.

"Couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." My voice sounds more teasing than I expected.

"I'm not _the_ John Watson." Why is he so quick to reply? Why can't he allow me to fantasize for one second?

Since I can't think of anything to say right away I opt for a sip of my coffee, which is when I remember. "Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," he replies with a bit of a sarcastic chuckle. It makes me smile sadly. It's true; his sister has never been of the reliable kind. It must've gotten worse since back then, when she always called him in the middle of his nightshifts at the hospital, drunk out of mind, telling him about her latest heartbreaks.

"I don't know; get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" He's serious in his reply and then an idea pops into my head. I have to refrain from congratulating myself for it. It's so good it makes me chortle.

"What?" John seems genuinely puzzled at that. Oh boy, he has no clue.

"You are the second person to say this to me today", I reply and cannot stop smirking at the brilliance of my idea.

"Who was the first?" There you go John. That a boy. This is going to be so easy.


	2. In the Lab

**Title:** Lunch Break Coincidences

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Genre:** Friendship/Romance

**Summary:** Mike Stamford would never have guessed that he'd play a key role in two peoples' lives. John & Sherlock's first encounter from Mike's POV, pre-slash!

**Beta by:** Nixie & punchycat

**Editing by: **TeaLogic

* * *

><p>We walk back the short distance to Barts, John insisted. I haven't told him anything about the person he's about to meet. That would spoil all the fun now, wouldn't it? I ramble about my work; tell him of all the new and 'exciting' changes they've made at Barts since he last practiced there, tell him I'll give him a little tour.<p>

When we reach the morgue's lab I can see Sherlock's dark figure through the window as I knock. He is leaning over a Petri dish, pipette in hand. This couldn't have worked better if I planned it.

When we enter he shoots a look into our direction. I can see his eyes aren't focused on me. I've known Sherlock for years and I know when he likes what he sees.

John looks around. "Bit different from my day," he acknowledges.

I look at Sherlock doing God knows what with the vast range of chemicals down here in the morgue's lab. "You have no idea", I tell John.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine" Sherlock asks me, knowing bloody well that I can see through his little games.

I will play with him today, because it serves my own agenda, but first I need to let him know that I know what he's doing, so I ask what's wrong with the landline.

"I prefer to text." As if I didn't know that.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." He knows I'm lying and clenches his jaw just the littlest bit.

And here we go. John, always trying to help out where he can, steps in. "Here, use mine."

"Oh," Sherlock throws me a quick glance, telling me that he doesn't like uninspired lies. "Thank you."

When he gets up and walks over I introduce John. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

John offers Sherlock his phone with a half-smile but avoids his gaze. I understand. Those ice-grey eyes made me uncomfortable at first, too.

Sherlock slides John's phone open to type his text and asks John: "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I can't help but look at John to see his reaction and of course there is confusion written all over his face. "Sorry?" he asks.

Sherlock turns his head, which is my first clue that my plan is working smoothly. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's mouth is literally agape with amazement. A completely understandable reaction, of course, but it never ceases to amuse me to see how Sherlock affects somebody else.

For the moment John gives in: "Afghanistan." He shifts uncomfortably, putting his weight on his seemingly injured leg without noticing it. "So how did you -", he trails off as a petite, very attractive brunette walks in, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Sherlock is quick to welcome her, handing John his mobile back. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Even before he takes the cup from her hand he makes another one of his observations. Apparently she'd been wearing lipstick before we arrived and being Sherlock he makes a point by telling her that her mouth looks too small without it while walking back to his workspace. Seems to me like he is trying to prevent any wrong assumptions John could make about him.

After taking a sip of coffee he asks John, not bothering to look at him: "How do you feel about the violin?" The poor woman hurries from the room as quickly as she came; clearly embarrassed by the way Sherlock treats her. I'd feel sorry for her, but the critical phase of my plan just commenced and there's nothing I can do apart from sitting back and watching how it all unfolds. So I look at John, a corner of my mouth rising.

He looks at me and then at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what?" he asks, shifting his weight again.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end." Sherlock's typing while he talks and finally turns around again to face John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." His face turns into a hideous sort of grin, making it more than obvious that he is lying. That's not the worst there is to know about Sherlock Holmes. But of course I wouldn't tell people about my dark past when I wanted to impress them, either. So I let him have this round of the game, a game he is playing perfectly in sync with my plan.

John's confusion is obvious. I try my very best not to smirk and I succeed by distracting myself with reading the little labels on the falcon tubes in front of me.

"Oh, you, you told him about me?" he tries to reason.

"Not a word." I say and shake my head in emphasis. Oh how I love this.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" asks John with a challenging tone in his voice.

"I did: Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." Sherlock says, putting on his coat; a coat that anyone but him would look ridiculous in. "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He wraps his signature blue scarf around his neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John always wanted to know the logic behind the magic trick. Probably one more reason why he decided to study medicine, he just wanted to know the logic behind life itself. But right now he seems more uneasy than curious, nervously swallowing the lump that has formed in his throat.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." Sherlock pockets his mobile, but not before checking it for new messages, which tells me that his no-reception story really was bogus, and then he walks over to John. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He starts walking past John, but not without testing him one more time. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

It is so obvious that the riding crop comment was well thought through. Sherlock has always been a tease. He loves to play with fire. I should know; that's how I met him. It doesn't miss its aim; John does hesitate for a second. But then he puts on a defiant face.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" Sherlock asks, turning around and coming right back to John. He is the one always telling everybody how obvious they are, but right now he is the one who is easy to read. He just can't resist coming back to John.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" John's body language tells me that he is not opposed to the prospect of living with Sherlock at all, but simply that he doesn't like an ambush.

Soldiers, I think. Sherlock seems to share that thought as he throws me a glance.

"Problem?" Sherlock wants to know. He's a bit annoyed - I can tell - he's not used to such strong personalities.

John shoots me a look as well and I begin to feel like a sort of silent referee. But I'm quite happy with how things are working out.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting and I don't even know your name." Johns says defiantly, but his eyes betray him. He's blinking quicker under Sherlock's intense scrutiny.

And then I can see Sherlock's pose shift; he straightens up the tiniest bit and lowers his head. He is in full deduction mode now. He starts speaking in his fast detective voice, which always gives me the impression that his mouth has a hard time catching up with his thoughts.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." Sherlock's quick words are accompanied by the smallest of facial expressions and when I look from him to John I see my friend's eyes widening a little bit more with each little fact that comes spilling out of the detective's mouth. "And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic," he says looking down to John's hand on the cane, John follows his gaze "Quite correctly, I'm afraid." Clearly unsettled by Sherlock's words John is shifting his weight again, this time from his 'injured' leg to the cane. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Sherlock's self-satisfaction is clearly visible in his posture as he turns around, while John is pouting his lips. The detective is halfway out the door when he pops his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winks playfully at John and shoots me once last appreciative glance; a look that tells me he knew about my plan the second I knocked on the door.

"Afternoon," he bids his farewell and I acknowledge my defeat with a raise of my hand. But even if he did know about my plan, there was still one last variable: John. After the door falls into its lock my old friend turns his head to look at me. Immediately I know that my plan worked.

I nod my head and give him a final push in the right direction: "Yeah, he is always like that."

John just stands there for a long while, visibly startled. And I can't help but feel just as self-satisfied as Sherlock.


	3. Reminiscence

**Title:** Lunch Break Coincidences

**Summary:** Mike Stamford would never have guessed that he'd play a key role in two peoples' lives. John & Sherlock's first encounter from Mike's POV, pre-slash!

**Beta by:** Nixie & punchycat

**Editing by: **TeaLogic

* * *

><p>It's only been a few days since I introduced John and Sherlock and today I did my follow up, as a good doctor should. I found John's blog on the internet and read up on him.<p>

His version, of course, leaves out a lot. For example he calls me "a sort of mate" from uni. At first, I understood. I mean it's the internet. You have to be careful what you put out there. But then I read the comments.

_Mate, have you gone gay? (Bill Murray 29 January 20:31)_

_Hahahahaha! He can't be! The way he used to look at Clara! (Harry Watson 29 January 20:34)_

Then I knew that he didn't just want to not put it on the internet, he had kept it to himself all together. He didn't even tell his sister, who in fact is gay, that he did his fair share of experimenting in uni, with me, amongst others that is. Which is why I thought it was understandable when he would have preferred not to talk in the park. Quickly I have to ban the thoughts of John in my shower from my mind; it's never good to indulge oneself for too long in a better past.

John Watson is one of the most open-minded people I know. He says he is not gay and he really isn't. But he isn't straight either. John already knew back in uni that he could be sexually and romantically attracted to anyone. When somebody asked him what his sexual orientation was he would reply that he cared about the person, not their genitals.

However, since he happened to mainly fall for women, he kept it to himself. He always hated tense atmospheres, so unless he knew for certain that he was attracted to somebody he kept it to himself and hardly flirted with men unless he knew that they were attracted to him. Somewhere along the way, while trying to fit into the army environment where sex was frowned upon and same-sex relationships would have been especially hard to form, John had lost his radar for sexual tension.

Luckily I still have mine. I do get that I am not his type anymore, but after talking for a little while I was sure I knew just what he needed. It was clear to me that my plan had definitely been a success when I read the following on John's blog:

_I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

After John moved in with Sherlock his choice of words got even more promising:

_He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly. And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad._

I even left a comment on the last one.

_Didn't realise you were keeping a blog, John. I wouldn't have thought you were the type. And as for what happened with Sherlock, it doesn't surprise me one bit. Good luck, mate. (Mike Stamford 31 January 13:56)_

Of course he thought that I wished him good luck with the kinds of trouble that Sherlock would drag him into, but actually, I wished him luck to find his radar again.

Sherlock, on the other hand, never even had this sort of radar to begin with. He can deduce when the last time was that somebody had had sex, but he can't tell when you want to have sex with him. He's funny that way.

It used to be even worse. I got to know Sherlock in his so-called "wild phase". Back then, he had nothing but disdain for nicotine patches and had not yet found an outlet for his brilliance apart from annoying everybody with this ruthless deductions which he – of course – always shared with the world.

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes he was admitted to the emergency room when I had just started my nightshift. However he hadn't come in an ambulance but in a black limo, carried in by somebody who looked like a bouncer but wore shoes much too expensive to actually be an ordinary nightclub bouncer. All he told us that the unconscious man in front of us needed stitches and his stomach pumped. Somebody who had some unfinished business with him had made him swallow a little balloon and afterwards had given him a good beating to the abdomen.

So we did that, made sure he was otherwise alright and sedated him when he tried to get out of bed; orders from his bodyguard who flashed us some sort of government ID to stop us asking questions. We kept Sherlock overnight for observation.

Next morning, just after I was done for the night, I checked in on this very handsome, mysterious man. He still had something in his system, I could tell; or maybe - in hindsight - it had been something else already. I hadn't been a doctor long but I already knew a regular user when I saw one and Sherlock was creative enough to smuggle drugs into or organize them in a hospital, even when he was high as a kite already.

I decided to stay with him, just for a few more minutes until morning rounds began and he would be discharged. He might have been very important to somebody who was very important, but he clearly had nobody who actually cared for him. So I struck up a conversation and after thirty seconds it became clear to me that he was not your usual rich-kid-junkie.

When he was finally released I knew that it would not be the last time that I saw him. Sure enough, over the next two years he became a regular. He was brought to us every other week with some sort of drug-abuse induced problem. One time they actually brought him in a helicopter from Manchester, just because they knew that we would be discreet and listen to his bodyguard's orders.

I got to know Sherlock, because every time he was admitted during my shifts we ended up talking. I met him when he was at his lowest and I was part of his recovery. When I got the teaching job at Barts I pulled some strings so that he could conduct his experiments there. Because I never wanted to see him half-dead in the emergency room again, it would have been a waste.

When I met John in the park a few days ago I just knew. He was exactly what Sherlock needed; somebody who'd care for him, who'd help him with his work, who'd stand up to him. Somebody who'd need him just as much as he needed them.

I read John's blog now and I can see his admiration and love for Sherlock in every line, I have to say: I might not have gone off to save humankind, I might not have founded a family, I might not be the best teacher there is, but I helped two people find each other, even if they might not know it just yet. And that counts for something as well, doesn't it?

_~ Fin ~_


End file.
